


Out of Bounds

by peacewish



Series: TGWP [3]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-05-07 05:56:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14664702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacewish/pseuds/peacewish
Summary: Bits and pieces of scenes in the world of These Games We Play, but fell out of bounds.





	1. On the Care and Maintenance Of

Thundercracker teaches Fireflight to floss.  No, really.

 

* * *

 

 

**ON THE CARE AND MAINTENANCE OF**

 

The shouting dwindled and died away with every step Thundercracker took, leaving Starscream and Skywarp to finish the argument without him.  Some mecha could finish a journey round the planet and still have enough energy to argue; Thundercracker was happy enough to not be one of them.  Yes, the mission had been stupid, but it wasn’t really Starscream’s fault and more to the point it was  _ over,  _ or it would be for Skywarp if he’d only notice.  His loss. Thundercracker set his sights for the washracks and made all haste for them, looking forward to the luxury of a private rinse before his trinemates could ruin that too.  

He got there in good time but he wasn’t alone, and Thundercracker hesitated at the threshold when he heard Jazz and Fireflight talking over the flow of solvent.  Not that there was reason to hesitate, he reminded himself. Thundercracker was the ‘master’ now, and those Autobots were using  _ his  _ washracks, washracks he’d never given explicit permission to use.  But then, he hadn’t said they couldn’t either, least not to Fireflight.  They probably had no idea the seekers had even returned yet, and were taking advantage of a last chance to bathe in private.  Well, they were about to find out their time was up. 

“... and so then I said to him, ‘Yes sir, I realize you outrank me, but before you get on with the court martial, shall I defuse the bomb under your seat?  Or I can work while you demote, if you like.’” Theatrically Jazz enacted a mild shrug, his face the picture of innocence, and Fireflight giggled. 

For the second time Thundercracker stepped back from the doorway he’d been about to cross, surprised into curiosity.  Thundercracker, unlike his wingmates, had some very mixed feelings about Megatron’s war prizes when first announced. The Autobots, their personal slaves?  Really? The Autobots were the enemy, and a pretty dangerous one at that. Was it even safe to bring them under their own rooftops, into their berth chambers?

Starscream waved off his worries with talk about the collars and hobbles, but that didn’t put Thundercracker’s mind to rest on the subject, not even a little.  He’d been on the wrong end of Jazz’s special brand of sabotage often enough in the war, and quite frankly, the idea of going into recharge with him sleeping across the hall was enough to give him serious wingbumps - let alone in his own room.  He didn’t know how Skywarp could do it. 

So he was never really keen on the idea of keeping a slave, but then Megatron presented the red Aerialbot to him, and all that changed.  Fireflight was younger than the other Autobots, so young that Thundercracker had barely faced him in battle at all. Not compared to the five hundred vorns of exchanging crossfire with veteran Autobots, anyway.  He was young, and one of the very few flight models the Autobots could even muster. Compared to the usual blues and blacks favored by his fellow seekers, those bright red wings seemed exotic and attractive, inviting to touch.

But it was the optics, a fine blue like Earth’s sky, that really caught Thundercracker’s fancy.  Huge, pale, and terrified, they followed Thundercracker for every step they were in the same room.  They were never off him for a second, not even to drink his own energon, as if he were in a thrall that only Thundercracker could break.

Thundercracker was first among Megatron’s seekers, a soldier living more often on the front line than not, more accustomed to having orders barked at him than the other way around.  To become the focus of such unwavering attention was… strange. But not unwelcome - after the first few cycles of getting used to it, Thundercracker started to feel a quiet thrill in it.  To know that he was the center of this bot’s world now, that this silent, pretty little jet belonged to him and would live by his commands; it was a heady feeling. Thundercracker didn’t mind it at all.  

And he hadn’t minded how quiet Fireflight was in his watchfulness either, better that than a lot of pitiful whining or weeping.  But Fireflight had giggled just now, a sound so wholly unlike him that Thundercracker just stared in astonishment. 

“So what happened next?  Did you save him?”

“Of course.”

“Did he try to court martial you after all?”

“Too busy getting laughed out of his own platoon, I’m sorry to say.  So yes, sweet child, the Autobots really did have officers like Starscream.  Every army does. Let’s not tell him, though, right? ‘There are NO mecha like me!’, he’ll screech, and it’ll be the one time we’d wish he were right.”    

And sure, Seekers first and all that, but Thundercracker had to admit it was kind of funny, so he didn’t get mad.  But he did watch, transfixed, as that foreign sight of a smile spread across Fireflight’s face, his optics so different now than the way they tracked Thundercracker.  He was  _ laughing, _ the first time Thundercracker had heard him do so.  The first time he’d heard his slave utter any kind of noise other than a whispered ‘yes sir’ or quiet gasp of pain in the berth.  It was a novel sound for him, but it suited him. Thundercracker liked it. Without concsiously deciding to do so, he leaned against the doorframe and settled in to watch more.

“Been enjoying the peace and quiet without them, I hope?”  Jazz twirled a finger in direction for Fireflight to turn away, which he obeyed.  Jazz squeezed more soap onto a sponge, and pressed it against Fireflight’s back plating.  

“Well, sure, I guess.  But Thundercracker isn’t like that at all, even if Starscream shouts at him he almost never shouts back.  And when we’re alone in his room, it’s always so quiet. He doesn’t talk at all; it makes me nervous.” 

“Then maybe you should try asking him a question sometime.”  

“No, I could never…”

While they talked, Jazz was moving the sponge in languid, large circles across his plating, out from the center of Fireflight’s back and onto the right wing.  That’s when Thundercrackers’s contented spectating came to an abrupt halt. What the  _ what _ was that stupid Autobot doing to his slave’s wings?  And why didn’t Fireflight say anything? Unbothered, he answered some question Jazz had just asked, trustingly smiling at their shared reflection and not saying a word of complaint.  Then Jazz did it again, completing another circle down and up that bright red plating, as if to assure Thundercracker he wasn’t seeing things. He gaped, but when Jazz moved to repeat the same motions on the left wing, Thundercracker collected himself and decided the time for silent observation was over.  Primus, the bot was going to break his slave if he didn’t intervene!

Thundercracker strode into the washracks, purposely clanging his pedes against the steel floor, and took some gratified pleasure in the way they both jumped and whirled around.  Jazz especially deserved that, sneaky little fragger, and he took no small satisfaction in watching his visor flash white with surprise before hastily masking it with a smile. He also moved neatly between seeker and slave. 

“Thundercracker, sir, home at last.  I’ve missed you so much. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes.  You can get out.”

“Right away, sir.”  He closed a grip around the wrist of frozen Fireflight and made to leave.

“No, just you,” Thundercracker corrected.  “My slave stays here.” 

The look of wary fright in Fireflight’s optics kindled into sheer panic, and Jazz’s smooth smile faltered just a little.  “Is that… what you wish, Master Thundercracker? Perhaps I can see to your needs while this one pours you a drink.”

His voice dropped to just above a murmur while he spoke, soft as a fleecy towel.  It was a calculated invitation, right down to calling him ‘master’ which Thundercracker was technically not.  Thundercracker had fallen for that invitation a couple times already, and wound up finishing the night with Jazz sandwiched between himself and Skywarp.  He didn’t exactly regret those incidents, because by  _ Primus _ Jazz could do amazing things with his glossa, but right now Thundercracker was not in the mood for Jazz’s whore tricks.  Right now, he wanted Fireflight. 

“I said,” Thundercracker repeated in a harder voice, “get out.  And I don’t like to say things twice, slave. I want to be alone with what’s mine.”

Credit to Jazz for not even twitching, though his smile remained a little too perfectly fixed as he bowed.  “Yes sir.” He squeezed Fireflight’s hand a final time, the gesture accompanied with a long look of… something, pity or encouragement, Thundercracker wasn’t too sure.  He took his damn time about it, but finally let go and departed the racks before Thundercracker had to physically throw him out.

Then it was just them, and Fireflight had gone back to his usual mute terror, optics fixed on him and waiting for the worst.  Thundercracker, though, just crossed his arms. 

“Why were you letting him do that?”

Fireflight blinked, and a shadow of confusion fell over the fear, but he said nothing.  Thundercracker huffed impatiently.

“I asked you a question, slave.”  All around, it was probably the first time Thundercracker had ever given the kid an order that wasn’t ‘get me a drink’ or ‘get in the berth’, so Fireflight fumbled a bit to answer.

“I-I’m sorry, master.  I don’t understand.”

“Your wings, why were you letting him do that to them?  Why didn’t you say anything?”

A different kind of panic was starting to show in those optics, as he struggled to follow Thundercracker’s meaning and could not.

“I’m sorry, sir.  I do not understand the question.  Are you angry that Jazz was cleaning my wings?”

“I’m angry that he was ruining them.  And you just stood there and let it happen.  What, are Autobots too polite to tell each other to frag off if they don’t clean you up right?  Primus.”

Fireflight was starting to look more baffled than afraid now.  “Was there… something wrong about the way Jazz was cleaning my wings?  Master?,” he quickly amended.

“Eh?”  Thundercracker was so startled that he dropped his arms, openly gaping at Fireflight as the meaning sunk in.  “You mean you didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“How to clean your wings, you didn’t… ever since you got sparked last vorn.  You’ve been doing  _ that _ to your wings?  Well frag me, that’s just pathetic.  But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised when an army of groundpounders try to raise five flight models.  Starscream’s precious shuttle probably didn’t even think about how you wouldn’t know.”

He snorted and shook his head, then caught on to the confusion still all over Fireflight’s face.  “You, little jet, have not had the proper instruction in cleaning your wings, not your whole short life.  But I’ll fix that. Turn around.”

Fireflight’s vents hitched apprehensively, and he took a step backward.  Thundercracker just rolled his optics. “Relax, I’m not going to do anything to you, not now.  We’re talking wing hygiene here, and this is important. Turn around.”

He took the couple steps needed to get to the grooming supply shelf as he said this, and found the coil of filament he’d need.

“Wh-what’s that for?”

“For doing things right.  Turn around, already.”

This time, thankfully, he obeyed, though his optics never stopped tracking Thundercracker in the mirror.  “The problem,” Thundercracker explained, unwinding a short length from the coil, “is that you were letting Jazz push that sponge in a circular direction.  But wing platelets are designed to overlap each other, for aerodynamics, the airflow over the wings. Push a cloth up the wrong way, and you’re shoving every ounce of grit you just collected right up under those plates.  What you need is to get in there and thread it out.”

Held taught between his hands, he slid the filament up underneath a plate, and Fireflight jumped about a foot in the air with a squeak.

“That- that tickles!” he gasped.

“Yeah, but you’ll get used to it.  Feels good after a while, you’ll see.”  With an ease borne of vorns of practice, Thundercracker threaded left to right underneath the kid’s plating, hiding a grin at the way he wriggled.  His various wingmates just hmmed with pleasure (or argued he wasn’t doing it well enough, if they were Starscream), but Fireflight squirmed and contorted his face, trying to cope with the alien sensation, and it was cute.  

“I- I never knew about this,” he panted, after half a breem of it.  “Nobody on my team knew about this, nobody told us.”

“I know, grounders right?  But you’re here now, and we’ll get the damage undone.  Don’t maintain your wings right, and one day you might not be able to fly.”

Fireflight’s face, which had been almost amazed to discover this new information, promptly fell, and Thundercracker could have kicked himself.  The Aerialbot already couldn’t fly, thanks to his hobbles, and although he hadn’t let himself think about it much until now, Thundercracker was seized with a momentary horror at the awfulness of it all.  How horrible it would be for his most primary function to be stripped away, not just for medic’s orders but for life, never allowed to fly again.

He swallowed back the dread and tried to fix it.  “I mean, it matters whether you’re on the ground or in the air.  Stuff gets in your intakes no matter what the mode, and you don’t want Hook yelling at you about it.  Take it from one who knows. And maybe someday…”

He let that one lie rather than promising something he couldn’t deliver.  Maybe one day, Megatron would relax that rule about letting the Autobots transform.  If Starscream was half the genius he always talked himself up to be, they ought to be able to track and control the slaves such that being able to fly wouldn’t mean they could escape.  He could ask Starscream, next time he got the chance.

“Well,” he finally said, aware he’d let the silence go too long.  “If it were up to me, I’d let you fly, at least for short runs. Ain’t natural for a jet to not fly.”

“Yes sir.”  Fireflight’s optics were still sad, but he smiled wanly at Thundercracker’s reflection.  “I’m... glad that you understand that, sir.”

“Course I do.  But as long as you’re on this planet, you’re not missing much anyway.  The flying sucks exhaust.”

“On Cybertron?  Why?”

“Well first it doesn’t have nearly the atmosphere Earth does.  There’s no wind and barely a sky to fly in. When there’s hardly any air flowing over your wings, kinda takes the fun out of it.”

Thundercracker finished the last plate on his right wing, grimaced at the filthy thread, and unwound a fresh segment for the left one.  “And second, thanks to the war, there’s not much to see from up there anyway. Just ruined buildings and bombed out cities far as the optic can see.  I should know, I just had to fly over all them.”

“Why?”

“Permit patrol,” Thundercracker said scornfully.  “The neutrals aren’t supposed to leave the city. But if they have a permit from Shockwave to let them scavenge for metals then it’s alright.  We had to fly around the planet and check anyone we found to make sure they had the permit.”

Fireflight was looking a shade bewildered again.  “But why does it matter if they have a permit?”

“I dunno.  It’s stupid.  We all hated it, but we’ve been informed we’ll be doing it every megacycle now, so guess we better get used to it.  Anyway, it’s the only reason to really shake loose and get a long flight in, so could be worse. And now, it’s your turn.”

With a flourish he pulled the thread out from underneath Fireflight’s final wing plate, and watched his optics get big again.  “Eh? Master?”

“Seekers always do this for each other in the racks, it’s common courtesy.  I do your wings, you do mine.”

He bit off another length of thread and placed it in Fireflight’s unresisting hand.  “Obviously, you need the practice. Hold it taut like this, then slide it up under my first plate - just like that - and pull it side to side.”

At his back, he could feel Fireflight fumbling to copy his motions, but after a few tries he settled into the proper rhythm.  Even if he was new to the task, it felt nice to have someone trying to hard to do it right. That feeling flowed into him again, the heady rush of having so much  _ power _ over another.  Fireflight’s hands were quick, and light when they brushed against his plating.  He shuttered his optics, enjoying the sensation, knowing little charges were starting to build up in his system.

“Master Thundercracker?  Am I doing it right?” 

“You’re alright.  Keep going.”

“Do you ever… sorry.”  He cut off his own question abruptly, throwing in a mumbled apology, and Thundercracker shot a curious look at his reflection.

“What?”

“If it’s alright, can I ask: did you get to see your own city?  Unless it’s this one,” he added quickly, “I guess it could be this one.  Is it?”

Clueless about hygiene  _ and _ geography, great.  Thundercracker rolled his optics again.

“No, seekers don’t come from Iacon.  We all got built in Vos. And yes, we were there.”

Splintered arenas, fallen towers, grand runways that had once spanned the entire breadth of the city and were now gone.  None of it was anything more than scrap metal for the scavengers now. His spark ached to think of it. “Is it in very bad shape?” Fireflight asked innocently.

“It’s not great.”

“I’m sorry.”

The simple words surprised Thundercracker into looking up, and their optics met in the mirror’s reflection.  “It must be a terrible feeling, to lose your home city.

I wish I could have seen it, before.”

But he’d lost his home city too, sort of.  Autobot City on Earth had been torn to pieces by the time humans were done lobbing missiles at it.  Still, Thundercracker reminded himself, Fireflight had only lived there for a few minutes. Less than a whole vorn even.  It wasn’t the same at all.

“Can I move to the other wing?” asked Fireflight, oblivious to his thoughts.

“You may.”

Again those nervous hands fluttered across his wing plating, threading left to right, right to left.  They got a little less nervous as he moved down and across the wing, moving a little faster, though perhaps not fast enough if these charges were going to keep building.

“Do you do this task with every shower, master?”

“Nah, not unless you’re real finicky, or Starscream.  Once an orn is good enough.”

“And I can use this spool of filament?  It’s alright?”

“Not with Jazz it’s not,” Thundercracker said promptly, and was rather taken aback by the dismayed reaction on Fireflight’s face.  He looked crushed, and Thundercracker had to mentally backtrack to figure out why. “I don’t care if you hit the racks with him,” he amended, once he had.  “You bots do as you like. But he doesn’t clean your wings, I don’t trust a grounder to do it right. That’s just for you and me, got it?”

Fireflight exhaled, optics shining with relief.  “Yes, master. I understand.”

“And you don’t have to call me master all the time,” Thundercracker huffed.  “It’s too formal, it pricks my sensors. Just Thundercracker is good enough, unless Megatron is in the room or something.  Or unless you’re in big trouble,” he added after a second’s thought, flashing a grin at Fireflight to indicate he was joking.

Fireflight seemed less confident it was a joke, but he mustered up a weak smile.  “I think I’m done, mas- I think I’m done. Did I do it right?”

“Good enough.  We’ll practice more, you’ll get the knack.”

“That’s good.”  He stepped back when Thundercracker started to turn, and this time his smile seemed more sincere.  Almost like the way he was smiling for Jazz. “Thank you for teaching me.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Thundercracker replied, quite truthfully.  That sweet smile was drawing all his attention back to the tingles and charges zipping through his wires.  Without stopping to think much on it, he curved one hand behind Fireflight’s head and dipped down to kiss him.  Against his lips he pressed, glossa sweeping inside, kissing him not too hard but just enough to enjoy the taste.  As per always, Fireflight went stiff as a board, not fighting but not reacting either. It had never bothered Thundercracker before, but this time something felt wrong, and now he frowned into the kiss.  There had been a - something back there, just nanoseconds ago, a spark that two new wingmates might almost call a  _ connection _ .  And now it was gone.

He withdrew sooner than he meant to, and found those blue optics had gone back their usual state of quiet terror.  Fireflight was waiting for more of the same, dreading it, and too scared to say so. 

“C’mon, let’s dry off and then you can get me that drink.  I am dead beat. I see a John Wayne flick and early recharge in my near future.”

Fireflight blinked.  “Sir?”

“I said I wouldn’t do anything to you in here,” Thundercracker said simply.  “I meant it. Go on, grab a towel. Hurry up, Red, or I won’t let you watch it with me.”

Understanding filtered into Fireflight’s optics, and he almost did the real smile again - almost.  What he thought of the new nickname Thundercracker wasn’t sure, but he liked it anyway. So unique, those bright red wings.  

“Yes sir.  Right away sir.”  

Thundercracker slept alone in his berth that night, like always, and Fireflight slept on the floor by the window, also like always.  But it was the first night Thundercracker didn’t feel the need to lock him up with chains before they did, nor do anything to him beyond a rough pat on his head.  Having an Autobot around… nah, not such a bad idea after all. 

* * *

 

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a lot of these, but I miss writing and the wedding's over (yay!), so I thought it would be fun to get them down on paper. Sometimes a reader requested it, and sometimes it was just something I wanted to get off my chest. Enjoy if you like.


	2. Souvenir

Megatron put one pede over the threshold, and felt the rush of victory envelop him all over again.  The war was over. Fuel was flowing in from Earth on a regular schedule now, and the second stasis bunker of Kaonite civilians had just been reanimated.  Two refinery factories were already finished, ancillary businesses in the planning stages, mecha forming committees to build neighborhoods… in short, Cybertron was  _ alive _ again.  And it was all thanks to him and his army’s victory.

At his elbow, Shockwave was still yapping away.  “... Hook and Commander Starscream have finally concluded the restraints are satisfactory.  The collar filaments are threaded through the Autobot’s system, preventing transformation, as well as conducting any necessary punitive shocks.  Combined with the neural surgery that destroyed their targeting software, I can finally state with confidence -”

“Oh get along, Shockwave,” Megatron finally interrupted, though good naturedly.  “This is the fun part. Let’s enjoy ourselves, shall we? It’s time to go shopping.”

“As you wish, my lord.  Tell me, which Autobot have you decided upon?”

Megatron frowned a little as they moved deeper into the cell block.  “Well it’s definitely not that one,” he commented as they passed Hound’s cell, that filthy scout.  “He’s good enough for Earth; he’ll never be important.” In succession they walked past a few more Autobots, all of them huddled in the back of their cells, staring and then quickly looking down as they passed.  “Not that one either, or that one, or that one. None of these bots are special or glamorous enough to belong to me.”

The last cell on this row held Skyfire.  Shockwave paused outside the transparisteel barrier, and nodded toward the occupant within.  “You know that Commander Starscream wants this one more than anything. He’s done nothing but drop hints for ten megacycles.”

“Hints are only words to be ignored,” Megatron said dismissively, “which in this case, they will be.”

“Are you sure, my lord?  I know he expects it. And he’ll…”  Shockwave picked his words with care, “become quite vocal otherwise.”

“Let him be vocal.  It’s because he wants this silly shuttleformer so badly that I’m going to say no.  And if he knew me at all, he’d expect that too, the fool.” Megatron glared at the prisoner, knowing Skyfire couldn’t hear them and was rapidly looking more and more apprehensive while they talked.  “This is supposed to be the Autobots’ punishment, not a chance for them to curl up in berth with their former lovers, whispering and plotting against me. No, this one goes to Earth and he stays there.  That’s the end of it. Starscream can have- oh, what’s his name. The other scientist, the toolformer.”

“Perceptor is his designation.  A wise choice, my lord, he has a long and glowing history in Iacon’s academia.  I’m sure he’ll prove a valuable resource to any of Starscream’s future research.”

“He better,” Megatron grunted.  “Now enough about Starscream. What about you, Shockwave?  Which bot shall it be?”

“Oh, my lord, you are too gracious.  I confess, I’ve just been so busy managing the city’s reconstruction that I haven’t had time to think about it.”

A lie if Megatron ever heard one.  In the course of this long war, and the uprising that came before it, Megatron had learned there was precious little in the universe that Shockwave had not already thought of, planned for, and arranged a meticulous bullet point presentation to explain, if necessary.  Patiently he prodded him on.

“Well I’m asking now.  If you had your pick, which would it be?”

“Er, if it’s not too impertinent, we do have one of Elita’s troop in custody.”

“Ahh, of course.  You did get to enjoy a little more of their vicious guerrilla warfare than the rest of us, didn’t you?  You want some retribution.” He followed Shockwave to Chromia’s cell as he spoke, and watched him gaze with his lone optic through the glass to the slim figure within.  

“Perhaps I do.  Perhaps I just happen to find her a lovely specimen.”  Inside the cell, Chromia saw that look and snarled at Shockwave.  “I’m curious to discover whether I can break her.”

“I’m curious as well.  Good luck to you.” He clapped a hand on Shockwave’s shoulder in solidarity, then happened to notice the Autobot in the opposite cell.  The little yellow scout was watching them warily, the mutilation of his audials visible even from here. “Speaking of Autobots that you had to deal with, what about that one for Soundwave?  He’s a spy too, after all. Seems only fitting.”

“Oh no, my lord, remember that Soundwave already took those four little cassettibots into his home.  He asked you directly and you told him he could.”

“That’s right, I’d forgotten.  And that’s really enough for him?”

“He seems satisfied, my lord.”  Shockwave’s tone took on a decidedly prim note of disapproval.  “It seems most of his attention has been taken up with them, in fact.  He’s been working from his new home almost every cycle since. Now, enough about your officers, my lord, we really must find a bot for you.  You should be getting first pick ahead of everyone!”

Again Megatron frowned.  Shockwave wouldn’t understand; he’d never had a personal battlefield nemesis.  He’d never charged into the fight, smaller enemies knocked aside, knowing that inevitably he’d collide with the prime himself.  Now that it was all over and victory his, Megatron could afford to be nostalgic about it. The prime was a warrior, no sniveling politician, a true leader of his army who’d never been afraid to go against Megatron himself.  By rights  _ he _ should have become Megatron’s slave.  And he’d have done it too, Megatron knew.  He’d have bowed and knelt so prettily if he thought it would spare his followers, would have done it without complaint and Megatron would have spent the rest of their days enjoying what was finally his.  

But that wasn’t going to happen, because Prime was dead.  Killed by his own hand, in fact, as there would have never been another way to end the war.  Those same followers would have fought to their deaths so long as he lived. 

“I don’t know, Shockwave,” Megatron finally sighed.  “I just don’t know. It should be someone of appropriately high status, but Prime is gone and so is Elita.  Even Ironhide, Prime’s personal backup, would have been good, but he’s gone too.”

“If it’s status you want, then surely it must be this one.”  Shockwave led him to yet another cell. “With the prime and his first officer dead, Jazz here is now officially highest ranked of the surviving Autobots.”

Megatron wrinkled his nasal plating at the small frame, still recovering from battle injuries and lying in a heap at the back of his cell.  “He may have been Prime’s third, but he’s a  _ spy, _ not a warrior.  And so small. What kind of trophy would he look in my shadow?  Who made the initial capture?”

“Seeker Skywarp, my lord.”

“A miracle,” he snorted softly.  “Give him to Skywarp then, that’s good enough for the likes of him.”

He’d assumed Jazz to be in recharge, but just then his visor glowed dimly, and he smiled a slow and mocking smile for Megatron alone.  Impudent little prisoner. Megatron felt his hands tightening into fists. “Not for a while, though,” he added. “I want to make he’s properly broken in first.”

“As you command, my lord.  So if it’s size you want, would you have Grimlock?”

“Bah,  _ too _ big.  Too wild.  He’ll have to go to Earth for sure, and the rest of his Dinobots too.  All the biggest Autobots should go there, they’ll need heavy chains and a proper prison to keep them subdued.”

“But, you said you wanted large -”

“He doesn’t have to be big,” Megatron huffed.  “Just strong. Someone fierce, worthy of respect on the battlefield.  But will learn to take orders. And pretty to look at.” 

“Er, yes, my lord.”  Shockwave was starting to look a little flustered, scrolling through the inventory on his datapad.  “Perhaps the Aerialbot leader?”

“Newspark,” Megatron scoffed.  “I don’t want him in my berth, not worth my time.  Send him to Earth.”

“My lord, I confess, I am starting to run out of- oh, here’s a thought.  What about this one?”

Shockwave beckoned him to another cell around the corner, holding Sunstreaker.  His flashy golden armor was still streaked with battle scars, but he wasn’t lying in any heap.  The second both Decepticons came into view, he veered away from his pacing and strode right for them, slapping his hand hard against the barrier that separated them.  Shockwave flinched, but Sunstreaker’s gaze was on Megatron, ice blue optics blazing with hatred. Megatron had tangled with this one in combat often enough; he was indeed fearless and fierce.  And handsome. Megatron met him stare for stare, and smiled.

“Yes… I think this one is a good pick.  I will have this one.”

“He may be difficult to domesticate,” Shockwave warned.  “Even with the collar.”

“Good.”  

“Then it is settled.  I will have him delivered to your quarters as soon as they’re finished.”  He turned away and started jabbering about who the Constructicons would need, leaving Megatron to exchange a final look with his new property before he too turned aside.  How nice - a new challenge.

After that it turned boring.  Shockwave insisted on parsing out the needs of the remaining Decepticons versus their political weight, carefully balancing slave distribution in such a way that each subfaction had what they would need for their peacetime tasks, not feel slighted, and still have enough Autobots left over to send to Earth.  Patiently Megatron followed him up and down the corridors between cells, nodding when it was asked of him, and starting to think of a full cube of energon.

At long last Shockwave announced they’d arranged a plan for all the captured Autobots, and they could begin to discuss the details of when they’d be awarded.  “Oh, never mind that now,” Megatron said hastily. “Our pets will have to wait until all the Cons have settled into their new homes anyway. Just arrange for the Earthbound ones to be moved to our Arabian base, and that will do for now.”  

“Of course, my lord.  I will notify Motormaster at once.”  

Both turned to travel back toward the cellblock entrance, but two steps past the next cell Megatron stopped in his tracks.

“My lord?”

“I just… remembered something,” Megatron said slowly, the words a literal truth.  How strange, for such an old memory to unfold this way, unbidden and without warning.  A simple image whisking past his peripheral vision was all the trigger it needed, and now he remembered.  He remembered all of it.

“Was it something you needed me to do?”

“No no, nothing like that.”  Carefully, as if he might lose the thread of memory by moving too fast, Megatron turned his head aside and looked at what it was that had caught his attention.  On the far side of the glass, the Autobot inside returned his stare, frozen stiff with fear. “You’re dismissed, Shockwave. I’ll see myself out.” 

“Yes, my lord.”  Shockwave looked confused, but bowed and departed as ordered.  Megatron went back to staring at the Autobot, and like so much helpless prey, the Praxian stared right back.  Megatron opened his mouth to speak, then remembered the bot couldn’t hear him, so he accessed the controls and raised the barrier.  The bot’s blue optics washed out even more at that, blanching themselves nearly white with terror.

“I remember you.”  

No response.  Megatron took a step inside the cell, taking his time, because there was no hurry here.  “All these vorns, I’d forgotten, even though I’ve seen you often enough on the battlefield, little sniper.  But a mech gets distracted in combat, doesn’t he? And I just never stopped to think about it - until right now.  Do you remember?”

Still no answer.  Megatron took another step, not really minding in the least.  “Praxus was my greatest victory, you know. The worst destruction I’d ever achieved, with the least harm to my own army.  The city defied me, and it died for that. In so doing, it proved to the world that I was no mere terrorist, that I was a true force to be reckoned with.  So I remember that day fondly. I expect you don’t.”

Now just three steps away, Megatron paused and crossed his arms.  “You were standing on an upper turret of the city’s walls, when I led a vanguard of troops overhead, just behind the seekers’ assault.  You were staring, mouth open, stunned and helpless as any other civilian in the city that day. I happened to look down at that moment, and I saw you.  We looked right at each other, and I smiled.”

The Autobot’s head had begun to turn fractionally from side to side while Megatron spoke, more terrified now of the words coming from his mouth than Megatron himself.  “No,” he whispered. “That wasn’t me- I wasn’t there. You saw someone else.”

“It was you.  I know it was you.  I don’t forget faces, especially not one I saw on that day of my greatest victory.  At least,” he corrected himself, “greatest victory until now.”

Leisurely he expelled some air from his vents and bent forward, closer to optic level with the Praxian.  What was his name, even? It didn’t matter. “You never told any of them, did you? No one in the Autobot army knew that you actually looked me right in the optic that day, looked me in the optic and did nothing to stop me… not that you could have.”

This time the bot said nothing, just swallowed, and Megatron knew he was right.  He was not a very striking bot to look at, not formidable like the prime, or even very pretty like Sunstreaker.  But he was cute in his own way, like a little glitchmouse held helpless in his palm. Moreover, he was a mouse that could - according to others’ recounts - shoot the antenna off an enemy’s comlink from the far side of a battlefield.  He’d escaped the death of his home that day, joined the Autobots, learned to make something of himself. But that was all over, and now...

One large finger traced the curve of his jawline, and under his touch the Autobot trembled.  “I never got a chance to keep a souvenir of that victory in Praxus. But it seems I can finally correct that.”

Something deep in the bot’s vocalizer scratched, the beginning of a panicky keen.  “Please,” he whispered, and Megatron nodded.

“You’d better get used to saying that.”  Playfully he squeezed his chin, before letting go and straightening.  “Be flattered, Praxian. You attracted the attention of the great Lord Megatron, a surprisingly difficult thing for most Autobots to do today.  We’ll get to know each other very well in the coming cycles. I look forward to it.”

He turned on his pedes and left the cell, accessing the door controls on his way.  The barrier lowered just a fraction of a second after the Autobot began to keen in earnest.  

 

Six years later, and Megatron was too far from the escape shuttle to even see him, let alone think of pinging the frequency on his collar.  Bluestreak took the rifle handed to him, aimed, and put a shot right through his right optic. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone and everyone, and there were quite a lot of you, who spent the duration of TGWP wondering why Megatron would ever choose Bluestreak to be his personal slave.


	3. The Blanket

Breakdown was on the floor, curled as tightly into the cell’s corner as he could physically manage, head tucked between his arms.  This kept him facing away from the camera, but he could still feel it burning it into his back, watching,  _ staring _ , waiting.  Someone on the other end was waiting for Breakdown to do something, though he didn’t know what.  Cry? Scream? Is that what a gestalt mech is supposed to do when his leader is dead? Would it help if he did?  The raw hole in his spark ached so badly, it seemed no better than death itself. Maybe they’d come to put him out of his misery soon.  After what the Autobots had been through in this place, surely they must want to kill them all. Breakdown decided he didn’t care. He shuttered his optics tight, and waited for execution to come.

What finally came instead was a large tarp, floating down onto his body like one of Earth’s falling leaves, covering his huddled body with its thin layer of plastic privacy.  It wasn’t much, but it was  _ something _ between him and the camera, and after his initial burst of panic that someone had come into the cell was over, Breakdown nearly wept with relief for this gift.  But who gave it?

“Breakdown?”

Ah.  Red Alert.  Out of all the Autobots, he would be the one who knew what the camera was doing to Breakdown.  But then, Breakdown would have thought he was the one at the other end of it. 

“What do you want?” he growled into the wall.  

“I’m sorry if I’m bothering you,” was Red Alert’s flat reply.  “I can just take this tarp and go, if you want.” 

“No!  Please!”  Mortified at the overt display of panic, Breakdown cringed within his cocoon.  “I mean, why bother giving me this if you’re just going to kill me. That’s why you came, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t come here to kill you, Breakdown.”  Somewhere on the other side of his shield, Breakdown could hear scuffling sounds, like Red Alert was sitting down on the floor.  “That’d be Inferno, who’s waiting outside. And the only reason you’re not dead is that I won’t let him come in.”

Let him?  Breakdown pictured the hulking red mech, half again as big as either of them, the giant behind bars who glowered helplessly at Breakdown on the nights he came for Red Alert.  Breakdown had always met that look smugly, blindfold twirling about one hand, waiting for the mech to let go of his mate because what else could an Autobot slave do? No surprise that he wanted to kill Breakdown now.  More of a surprise that Red Alert, small as he was, could stop him - or even that he’d want to. 

“If you came to gloat, you don’t need to.  I know that he’s dead. I can feel it in my spark.”

“I know.”

“Then what do you want?” Breakdown snapped.  “Did you come to play with me, use me like I did to you?  Go ahead. Get on with it. I won’t feel it, not over this pain.”

“You think -” Red Alert started, then interrupted himself with a sigh.  “Of course you think. But I didn’t come here to rape you, Breakdown. I came here to put a blanket over you.  I know what surveillance cameras do to you.”

“Then why would you help?”

This time there was no immediate answer, and Breakdown heard nothing but the echo of his own ventilations trapped under his tarp.  It was starting to get a tad stuffy under here, to be honest, but he did not even consider removing it.

“I know what it’s like,” Red Alert finally offered, “to be surrounded by your own team and still feel like you’re all alone.  They never understood the paranoia, the insecurity. To them - to your own brothers - it was a joke. I know that’s why you came to me, almost every night.  You didn’t do it to hurt me. You did it because you knew that, to me, it was not a joke.”

Which wasn’t to say there was no hurt.  In his shelter Breakdown shuttered his optics again, remembering.  All those nights, almost every night. First a private bathing session, then he’d toss him into his berth, blinder strapped securely over his optics.  With the watcher safely leashed, it was true; Breakdown could be with the one mech who understood him better than his own team. 

“Don’t lie,” he muttered.  “I know you hated it. I saw the look in your optics before the blinder went on.”

“Maybe,” Red Alert said, voice glacially cool.  “But you’re still not a joke.”

Another scuffle, and Breakdown knew he was standing again.  “Drag Strip is under repair, Wildrider still in forced stasis.  But they’re going to live. Dead End’s injuries were minor, though, and he’s not putting up any fight.  I’ll ask Prowl if he can be moved into this cell with you, so at least you won’t be alone with a camera for company.”

“Are you just going to kill us all later?”

“I think Prowl is planning to trade you to Cybertron, like a goodwill gesture.  And we’ll never have to see each other again.”

The Stunticons, shipped back to Cybertron?  To the other Decepticons, they would be just another leaderless and broken gestalt team.  Nobody would care about their grief, let alone his lonely paranoia. Nobody would care at all.  

“No,” he croaked.  “I can’t do this without you.”  

“I’m not your security blanket anymore.  Goodbye, Breakdown.” 

Too late he threw aside his tarp, ready to lunge, grab, plead, whatever it took.  But the door was already closing, and Red Alert was gone. 


	4. Butterfly Effect

_ Butterfly Effect: noun, (with reference to chaos theory) the phenomenon whereby a minute localized change in a complex system can have large effects elsewhere. _

 

**Flap 1:**

 

Steeljaw woke to grief.  It was always that way, now, and he’d grown used to shaking out of recharge and straight into the pain, old and sad and worn over with time.  Blaster wasn’t going to be there when he finished waking, not carrying him within his docks nor even on his lap, one hand tickling the backs of the ears in the way Jaw liked best.  Blaster was gone, and no matter how many times Steeljaw went into recharge then booted up, that was never going to change. 

He felt his pangs, but there were other sensations too, like the smell of fizzy coolant and the shouts of laughter from his brothers playing a noisy video game.  They were locked in a fourway battle with the twins, he found upon unshuttering his optics. He stood, stretched one limb after another, then crossed the distance between them to snuff at their heads and bathe them in a few licks.  

“Get off, Jaw,” whined Eject, though without tearing his optics off the screen for a second, “you’ll make me lose!”

“Yeah, Steeljaw,” Rumble chimed in.  “Wait until we beat these losers.”

_ We?  _  Well that was new.  But sure enough, going by the positions of their screen avatars, it seemed Rumble and Eject had paired off against Rewind and Frenzy.  How… crossfactionally cooperative. Blaster would have probably laughed hard enough to fall off the couch, if he could see them now. 

His spark pricked at the image of it, and he winced.  Would the pain ever really go away? There were moments his true master seemed so close, like if only Steeljaw could concentrate hard enough he could bring him back into the world - laughter in his blue optics, rock and roll music thumping in his speakers.  Steeljaw dreamed of warmth and love, but woke to Soundwave’s cold monotone. It was a schism that he could barely stand, most days. But then he heard Rewind yelp in dismay at some loss for his avatar, and Eject laugh at him, all punctuated by Ramhorn’s gentle snore in the corner.  For his brothers, for their sake, Steeljaw stood the pain.

Soundwave himself entered the room just then, emerging from his office.  Reflexively Steeljaw stiffened, though he had learned long ago that Soundwave did not strike what he considered his.  A lifetime’s worth of war was a hard habit to break after all. Soundwave took note of the motion and his response, as always, was a fractional but respectful nod in greeting.  He’d already learned to not pet Steeljaw unless invited, which was much the same way he treated Ravage.

Instead he moved directly to the couch, sliding between it and the jumping, frantic pack of four cassettes with the ease of long practice.  One after another he dropped a single pat on each head. Decepticon, Autobot, Decepticon, Autobot. 

He was generous, Steeljaw had to concede, and more affectionate than any of them would have ever guessed.  How gentle and careful he’d been when he first brought them home, handling them all as if they were made of fragile glass.  The tireless rocking to recharge, those patient midnight feedings. He never complained or showed anger, not once. On this too, Blaster would have agreed, Soundwave saved all their lives.

The other side of the room erupted in shouts, two of them joyful, two anguished.  Ramhorn unshuttered one optic, grunted, and settled back into his doze. Over his head through the window, Steeljaw checked the skyline for the seekers’ tower.  Still dark, not quite yet time for Jazz’s signal. It was a little sad, really. Steeljaw had actually come to like Soundwave, just a bit.

He would miss him after the escape tonight.

 

_ Over time, small changes combine to alter course in the system, leading to a variety of drastically different outcomes. _

 

**Flap 2:**

 

Another work cycle had come to an end, and though Soundwave had delayed it as long as possible, that meant the time had come for this chore again.  Five times over he pulled enough fuel from the dispenser to fill the necessary cubes: one full size, the others just enough to satisfy a cassette model.  Onto a tray the five went, and into the lift he went, down to the level below his own loft. One door and then the next opened at his signal, and mentally Soundwave braced himself before stepping inside.  

“Night cycle fuel ration, arrived,” he announced, rather unnecessarily, since this cell of a room was devoid of any distractions and Blaster could hardly miss his arrival.  He was, as usual, reclining against the farthest wall, fingers laced behind his head, and he rolled a flat unwelcoming look at Soundwave.

“And a good evenin’ to you too, Soundwave.  Also, I hate you.  See you tomorrow.”

A quiet sigh slipped from Soundwave’s vents.  Though he generally left at this point with no more words, tonight it would be necessary to… converse.  He did not relish it. 

“Blaster should know that today, Soundwave renewed conversation with Megatron regarding this arrangement.  Continued mutual unhappiness and lack of productivity again brought to his attention.”

“Oh?” drawled Blaster.  “And what does our Dear Leader have to say about it?”

The same, unfortunately, and Soundwave repressed another sigh.  Most model types tended to prefer their own, and Decepticons had hardly ever known otherwise - seekers always pawing at each other, just to name one example.  When Soundwave tried to explain his antipathy for Blaster, Megatron had nothing for him but blank looks and deaf audios.

_ “But he’s one of your type, isn’t he?” _ came the inevitable response, followed by  _ “You’re the only one of us that would know how to handle him, after all”  _ and thereafter ending with  _ “No, I will not hear of sending him to Earth - Primus knows what that one might get away with on the radiowaves without you there to supervise him.”    _

“Soundwave, made best attempt to persuade Megatron of difficulties,” he relayed.  “But unsuccessful.  Megatron still convinced that your presence here is best arrangement.”

“Surprise,” Blaster murmured, optics rolling toward the ceiling before he followed up with his own sigh.  “What are we gonna do, monotone? We both know this can’t go on. Maybe I’ll just get zapped by your stupid collar while trying to strangle you in your sleep and  _ that _ ’ll get his attention.  Go lie down, and I’ll be there in a minute.” 

“This invitation, declined,” Soundwave said frostily.  “But, some consideration given to intermediate relief, and this much offered: more freedom of movement permissible for cassettibots.  If Blaster willing, Soundwave will allow them to accompany me to headquarters during workshift.”

Blaster looked up sharply, optics flaring bright blue in surprise before promptly crystallizing to the color of ice.  Soundwave was expecting it, and remained steadfastly still even as Blaster shot to his pedes. 

“I wanna fucking kill you so hard right now.”

“This fact, known.”

“You think you can take my cassettes out for the day?  Show them the sights? Give them their fuel? Next you’ll be offering to dock them in your chest.”

“Perhaps,” Soundwave said maliciously, because it was so very difficult to  _ not _ rise to Blaster’s antagonism, “cassettibots will not be displeased to dock with a master who is not prisoner and slave.”

“You so much as look at my kids sideways with your chest open, and I promise I’ll kill you through every zap you throw at me.  You know I’m not kidding.”

Soundwave did know that, just as he knew his threat to adopt Blaster’s symbiotes was an empty one.  His code may be pleading to steal away the four little ones from this low-status rival, but his duties to Megatron’s government were time consuming enough.

“Blaster may dislike Soundwave -”

“Hate!”

“- and Blaster may dislike offer, but Blaster must consider needs of cassettibots.  Their kind requires exploration, and Blaster knows they are miserable locked in this space.  They will be happier if they accompany myself and cassetticons during work shift. If cassettibots happier, Blaster happier.  This denied?”

Blaster could not, as they both knew Soundwave was only telling the truth.  Cassettes needed to roam, and Blaster loved his symbiotes more than his own pride… like any decent host carrier model would.

His hand moved to cover the chest glass, within which the subjects of their conversation were peacefully docked.  “You’ll really let them go outside?”

“Only two at maximum, for purposes of simpler supervision.  And only for those shifts that will not require Soundwave to attend classified meetings.  Invitation also strictly contingent on behavior of cassettibots, which must be quiet, respectful, and obedient at all times.”

“Not just your office,” Blaster mumbled.  “It’s full of Decepticons, for one thing, and probably boring for another.  There’s a city growing out there. Even if you never let me out of this room I can still hear it.  Take them to see some of it… on your way home or something. Say you’ll do that, and promise you won’t ever try to dock them - and I’ll let them go with you.”

“Promise, as fellow cassette carrier, given: offer to dock will not be extended.”

Blaster knew Soundwave better than most Autobots ever did, and he knew Soundwave kept to their model’s code of honesty as much as himself.  All the same, Soundwave wondered if Blaster really believed him. It was a hard thing, to contemplate entrusting one’s cassettes to a rival, and Blaster and Soundwave were more rival than any two members of their race had probably ever been in all history.

In spite of all that, Blaster managed to nod.  “It’s a deal.” He then proceeded to mystify Soundwave by spitting into his palm and extending one of his chained hands forward.  “Shake on it?”

“Your human custom, not required.  Definitely not wanted.”

“Snob.”

“Blaster, inferior.”

Their usual harmony restored, Soundwave turned to leave.

“Wait,” Blaster spoke up unexpectedly.  “When you’re at Con HQ, do you think you might ever let my kids see other Autobots?  It’d be great if they could say hi to Jazz, they’re real fond of him.”

“If their behavior acceptable and time permitting, exchange of greetings allowed.”

“You’re a swell mech, Soundwave.  I don’t care what the seekers say about you.”

Soundwave was not inclined to give Blaster the satisfaction of even one baleful look over the shoulder.  He exited the room, door slamming shut behind him.

 

_ The change of events within even a single moment can amplify into surprisingly large results. _

 

**Flap 3:**

 

Ironhide drove like he never had before, tearing hard across the battlefield, missiles exploding around him, bullets thick as rain.  Even from here he could smell the overwhelming thick aroma of fossil fuels. The silos had burst while Elita was still trapped under that collapsed building.  Chromia was on her way, Optimus already trying -

By a fraction of a second, Hide veered to avoid the ragged gouge a missile had carved into the ground.  Going at this speed, it’d have sent him flying hood over axle. Instead he only picked up velocity, roaring across the last of the distance between himself and Megatron.  Too busy trying to aim his cannon at Prime in the fuel spill, Megatron never heard him coming. Ironhide didn’t even bother to transform.

The dents in his front grill would be his favorite talking point at parties for  _ years  _ to come.

 

_ Across a thousand possible consequences, some factors may remain constant.   _

 

**Flap 4:**

 

For such a long war, Mirage could never stop being surprised when a life ended so quickly.  A startled meeting, a confrontation, his weapons fired first and that was that - Soundwave took a shot directly into his cranium nerve wires, and his body was sprawled across the ground before Mirage could even process what happened.  Then routines kicked in and he started a standard search while comming Jazz to join him, checking for vitals or other flags. No good, even his spark was already stopped in its chamber; the great, fearsome Soundwave was well and truly dead.

“Wow,” Jazz commented, upon arrival.  “So he really is down.”

“Yes, I can barely process it myself.  He was already a Decepticon before I even joined the war, I think he was already Megatron’s comms officer.  For me there’s never been a time that he wasn’t the enemy.” 

On the far side of the body from him, Jazz dropped to one knee, placing a hand over the ridge of Soundwave’s helm.  “It’s too bad… would have liked to take him alive for his intel. But, I know it couldn’t be helped.” He shrugged, and got on with establishing a comm to the ship overhead.  “Yo, Jukebox, still with me?”

“Copy, Jazz.  What happened down there?”

“Things got a little hot, but we’re okay, which is more than I can say for Soundwave.  Afraid all of Megatron’s hopes of winning this war just died along with his only competent officer.”

A beat of stunned silence traveled down the airwaves before Blaster echoed it sharply, “Soundwave’s dead?”

“Yeah, sorry to break the news.  I know you two were best pals.”

“What about the cassettes?”  

“Um -”

“Are they inside?  Have you checked? Look already!”

Both of them jumped at the uncharacteristic urgency in Blaster’s voice, and hurried to comply.  Though neither a medic, both knew enough field repairs to know their way around some dissection.  With blades and no small amount of force they managed to lever off the glass of Soundwave’s chest plating.  Docked inside were two cassettes, which Mirage could not extract without literally cutting away the docking platforms to come with them.  

“Which ones are they?”

“Don’t know well enough to say.  Do you think they’re alive?”

“They don’t look damaged enough to be hurt,” Mirage observed, uncertainly.  “Maybe they’re just asleep, since they were inside. Ratchet will know for sure.”  Without knowing what else to do, Mirage simply stored them in his subspace. “That leaves three.  Let’s go hunting.”

It was not, however, much of a hunt.  He and Jazz prowled the grounds and in short order found Laserbeak, Ravage, and Rumble, all three of them dropped into a hard stasis.  All of them were scooped up to join their brothers, and didn’t even twitch in their journey back aboard the shuttle. 

“Emotional shock,” Ratchet diagnosed, in the medbay.  “Never witnessed it firsthand for cassette types, but it’s been documented in gestaltmechs, same cause.  Someone in their loop goes down, so it’s either this or they go straight down with him.”

Mirage swallowed, not for the first time grateful for his status as an ordinary, independent vehicle.  Ratchet had already triggered a forced transformation to get Buzzsaw and Frenzy back into their root modes.  Now he finished plugging the last of them into his datapad, inducing medical stasis. “This will keep them under for a while longer, and let them wake up more gently.  Not that it’ll be any easier on them when they finally do.” He grimaced and looked at Blaster, who’d been there since the moment they got to the medbay but hadn’t spoken a word since.  “Do you know anything about what happens next?”

He shook his head.  “Just that it’s every cassette’s worst nightmare.  I’ve heard rumors that it can even kill them, if they don’t fight through it.”

He couldn’t tear his optics off Laserbeak, lying right before him.  As if he couldn’t help himself, he knelt by Ratchet’s table, fingertips softly stroking the platelets on her small head.  “I’ll take them.”

“Say what?” both Jazz and Mirage yelped, just as Ratchet was saying “Excuse me?”

“They won’t need your medicine, Ratchet.  They’ll need a home. Throw them in a cell and we may as well just shoot them.”  

“Blaster, my mech,” Jazz spoke up, “take a second to consider this.  You have four cassettes already. You really want to double that and then some?”

“Not really.”  Blaster’s blue optics, normally so carefree, were pale and nervous.  “But Jazz, I have to. They don’t have anyone else.”

“They have their own army!”   

“An army that’s not going to last another year, and we all know it.  Megatron was on his last legs even before losing Soundwave. Now it’s just a matter of time.  Send these little Cons back there without their master to protect them, and they’ll be starved, beaten, or killed.”  

Jazz exchanged a look with Mirage, who nodded.  “They already can barely feed their own. They’d have to fight for every drop.”

“But why do you care?” Jazz pressed.  “You hate Soundwave. You’ve always hated Soundwave.”

“I know.  But he’d do it for me.”  

“How do you  _ know?” _

“I just do, Jazz.”  He still hadn’t pulled his hand back from Laserbeak, like he didn’t even realize he was still petting her.  “What else can I do but try?”

 

_ Or maybe fate just steps in to get what it wants, in the end.  _

 

**Flap 5:**

 

The war was done.  Megatron now gone. Alone in his cell, breems became orns while Soundwave struggled to wrap his mind around these two concepts and not fall to pieces in the process.  Megatron was his leader, and Soundwave had dedicated most of his life to his cause. Megatron depended on him, had trusted him, but in the end, when it mattered most, Soundwave was not there to protect him.  And so it had ended, all of Megatron’s grand dreams to colonize Earth, rebuild Cybertron, bring life back to their race. Instead the Autobots killed him and claimed his followers for themselves. What a sad ending for his glorious plans.  

And where did that leave Soundwave?  Drifting alone, and lost, with no leader to serve or task to fulfill.  He’d fallen from trusted advisor to Cybertron’s greatest military leader to helpless prisoner, unable to even protect his own cassettes.  Laserbeak would have died if the Autobots had not taken her into their own surgery and now she was still just clinging to life, her consciousness barely touchable to Soundwave’s anxious connections.  The rest of them were at various levels of bruised and beaten, caged elsewhere in the prison, escorted to him one at a time per cycle for a little docking. Soundwave was grateful for that small mercy, but it did nothing to ease his fears or those of his tiny, panicking cassettes when they pleaded with him,  _ “What’s going to happen to us, boss?  What are they going to do?”  _ To that question, Soundwave had no answer.  And after all this time, he was torn between dying to know and fearing he’d wish for death when he found out.

The door at the end of the corridor snicked open, Soundwave’s audial receptors could just hear it.  Most mecha wouldn’t be able to hear from this distance, but the Autobots didn’t know Soundwave’s real hearing range and he felt no need to enlighten them.  Ravage was inside his chest, so it was not another Autobot escorting a cassette to his cell, nor was it time for feeding. He could already hear it was the steps of two mecha, not one, and without much trouble he dialed up his gain enough to distinguish their words as well.

“- ly should be Blaster.  It’s his model type after all.  Ain’t he in the best spot to know how to handle a guy like Soundwave?”

“Unfortunately, it seems to be quite the opposite, for the same reason.  Blaster has explained that their type is not meant to get along, like magnets of the same polarity.  They are only meant to be with their cassettes. He has offered to help with custody and supervision of the cassetticons, if needed, but stressed they should not be separated from Soundwave for an extended period of time.  Apparently it’s bad for their health.”

“You want me to take  _ all _ of them?  Prowl, you know I am not a relationship kind of mech.  I am even less of a family one. And I ain’t takin’ six Cons under my roof.” 

“What would you have me do, Jazz?  These are Prime’s orders. He is convinced Megatron’s followers can be rehabilitated if allowed to blend into postwar society.  Better that, he says, than to rust indefinitely in a prison that we cannot afford and will accomplish nothing but their undying hatred.”

“Let Prime adopt Soundwave’s personal zoo then, if he’s so hot and bothered about being  _ moral.” _

“His choice of Starscream is, I think, more appropriate.  If Optimus can show mercy to him where Megatron never did, pay respect to his advice, then Starscream may someday remember his value as a scientist and contributor to Cybertron’s prosperity.  And where he goes, all the seekers go.”

“You take him, then.”

“I will be quite busy enough managing the planet’s reconstruction to do any adequate job of supervision.  You are the one that can’t stop bragging about how you are happy to be out of work with the end of the war, and no more enemy to spy on.  You are the one with the time. You are also the one that has - how shall I put it? That odd… creativity for outwitting your opponents. Soundwave is intelligent, and dangerous, and I do not trust any other Autobot to monitor him.”

“Now you’re just flattering me.”

“Let us all hope that it is working, because the orders are not going to change.  Whether you want him or not, Soundwave is yours.”

That is when they finally came into view outside his cell bars, Prowl and Jazz, the smug victors so casually discussing his ownership.  They were looking him over in such a leisurely way now,  _ appraising _ him, and hatred and humiliation curdled in his tanks.  But Soundwave kept still, hands unclenched. Laserbeak was still upstairs in their medical wing, after all.  

Silently he glowered at Jazz, who saw his look for what it was and repaid it with a slow, lazy grin.  “Ah well, guess I’m beat. Maybe it’ll be fun, anyway. There might be more to this one than… what was that old human phrase?  More than meets the eye.”

* * *

 

 

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters


	5. Mirror, Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the last update was an experiment in different outcomes spinning off from the main universe of TGWP, all of which turned on a single changed aspect in each divergent timeline. It was just a casual thought experiment, and not intended to be anything more. But the final alternate universe spun a scenario in which the Autobots won the war and Jazz was granted ownership of Soundwave, and this alternate verse was immediately seized upon by the readers with gusto. I was bonbarded with requests to see more of what came next for a reverse Jazz/Soundwave slavery (bombarded, all in relative terms to my number of reviews of course). 
> 
> Honestly, nothing would make me happier, but it just so happened to be the onset of a busy holiday season, and then I actually went and broke my arm like a giant klutz (!) and only after the new year began was I in any place to even consider being able to write again. So I did, and this is what happened. Can you tell that emergency rooms may have been on my mind?

**Mirror, Mirror**

 

Laserbeak was taking a turn for the worse. 

Soundwave supposed that that much could be said about any of them, actually - from the tattered remnants of the Decepticon army, scattered and enslaved, to his precious family of cassettes cooped up in this prison of a berth chamber, but most especially to Laserbeak herself, who nearly died in that last doomed battle of the war and had come just as close in the two surgeries since.  On both occasions the Autobots had painstakingly bolted and fused her little frame back together, returning her whole to Soundwave’s arms, and both times Soundwave knew in his spark that she had not really healed. How could she, in this strange and frightening world where even he, her host carrier and master, could not protect her? 

Helplessly he watched her struggle to find her balance on the windowsill, arms held back just enough so that when she tipped over, he was close enough to reach and catch her.  The wave of dizziness swept up her end of the link and into him, accompanied as usual by a fresh plunge into misery. A flight model that could not even sit upright was in no condition to fly, and she missed flying terribly.  She missed having a place to fly  _ to.   _

“She’s gettin’ worse, boss,” Rumble muttered listlessly, more to be doing something than any need to say what they all knew.  “I can feel it, she makes me feel like I’m gonna hurl any nanoklik.”

“Cassettes, should close off reception from Laserbeak,” Soundwave pointed out.  “Experiencing her discomfort, unhelpful and only multiplying unhappiness.” 

“So?  Not like we got somewhere else to be.  They’ve taken everything else, they’re not gonna take our link to each other too.”  He slumped against Frenzy, who must have just dozed off, and fell still. Soundwave could barely tell even through their link if he’d actually fallen into recharge; their constant confinement to the room had dulled all their energy, and they spent most cycles slipping in and out of shallow naps.  Technically Jazz had allowed them the run of the entire floor, for what that was worth, but Soundwave feared for their safety and only allowed them out of the room when he knew for a fact Jazz had left the warehouse altogether. It didn’t matter anyway, there was no inch left for them to explore, no dusty corner uninvestigated, and now his cassettes were bored, miserable, or in at least one case, seriously ill.  

Again she nearly tipped off the sill, again Soundwave caught her just in time.  Buzzsaw pushed his way alongside her, demanding to be the brace against which she could lean, but after a breem Laserbeak felt too hot and pushed herself clear.  Peevishly Buzzsaw nipped her on the neck, and she screeched at him to leave her alone. They were all irritable, pent up like this, and Soundwave put a hand between them and guided Buzzsaw away, petting him to reassure him he was still loved.  Buzzsaw, of course, was having none of that and launched off the sill to go perch on the edge of the berth. Ravage unshuttered one optic at the movement, growled softly to ensure everyone still knew to avoid his space, and reshuttered it. How long would it be, Soundwave wondered, before his oldest symbiote snapped and seriously injured a sibling?  Could he even -

Another surge of distress from Laserbeak, and this time Soundwave was not fast enough.  She tipped beak forward into the sill, convulsed, and rejected all the energon in her tank in a single wet splash.  Her temper disappeared, crumpled into embarrassment, and she cheeped tiny apologies that Soundwave was quick to shush.  Poor little Laserbeak, why did she always seem to get the worst of it? 

Patiently he scooped her off the sill and began the process of wiping her down with a cloth, a stack of them always in here now for just this purpose.  And internally, he sighed with resignation. He had very much not wanted it to come to this, but it was time to admit it: Laserbeak needed to see a medic.  Which meant he, Soundwave, must now ask it of Jazz.

 

It was a decision he’d been avoiding all night, but now that it was made, it felt like he had to wait forever before Jazz finally surfaced from that interminable bass thumping below.  Soundwave heard him, at last, making his way from the lift to his personal berthchamber - accompanied as usual by the cooes and giggles of his nightly partner. Always it was a different one.  He would not appreciate being interrupted, but Laserbeak wobbled and tipped over again, and the anxiety crawling through his spark was worse than any fear of Jazz’s reaction. Laserbeak was his cassette, Soundwave responsible for her safety.  He had to try.

Spark skipping with trepidation, Soundwave left their room and stopped outside of Jazz’s door.  He raised his hand and tapped twice, tentatively. There was no response, and he was sure Jazz had not heard.  He was just raising his hand to rap again when it flew open unexpectedly, startling him. Jazz stared right back, his armor loose and parted, vents whooshing air at high speed, his visor glowing a lush blue that was fractionally tainted with irritation.  

“Well?” he prompted, while Soundwave was still getting over his surprise.  “What is it?”

“Jazzz…”  One of the newly awakened civilians draped herself over Jazz’s shoulder.  “What’s going on- ooh, is that a Decepticon?” Iacon blue optics widened at the sigil on his chest, fluttering just a little in both awe and apprehension.

“Unfortunately.  What do you need, Soundwave?  I’m busy.”

At the terse reminder, Soundwave hastily collected himself.  “Apologies offered. However, Laserbeak very unsteady. Suspect gyromechanics compromised, and medical treatment likely required.”

Jazz rolled a groan down his throat, accompanied by a huff of air from his vents.  “Is there any day when that little bird is not sick? Never mind,” he added, before Soundwave could try to respond.  “I’ll call Ratchet. Hey doc?”

Fingertips danced over the curves of armor, continuing to tickle and tease his berthmate, who stifled a giggle by burying her face into his neck.  Whatever she was doing with her glossa there seemed to make Jazz happy, going by the way he tipped his head back against the doorframe and shuttered his visor.  “Yo, Ratch, need ya to make a house call.” A pause, and then his contented expression was marred by a slight frown. “Traffic accident? Can’t they just- It would only take- ugh, fine.  Okay, okay, you’re busy, I get it! I’ll take her to the medbay myself.”

He shut down the comm with a sigh.  “I’m sorry, my love, but we are going to have to take a rain check.  Duty calls.” 

“Aw!”  She pouted, lips pursed, an opportunity that Jazz seized by kissing her long and lovingly - so long that her vents were having a hard time coping, and Soundwave had begun to fidget again.  

“Perhaps tomorrow night,” Jazz consoled her, and without much demur ushered her right back into the lift.  Soundwave watched his shoulders drop, and when he looked back over his shoulder, the rich glow was gone from his visor.  

“Come on.  Aid’s waiting.”  

 

* * *

 

 

Soundwave would have preferred Ratchet - or, if the Autobots had allowed it, Hook.  Both, however, were apparently serving triage to the victims of a vehicle pile-up somewhere in the city, and it was First Aid alone who met them in the silent medbay.  

“She’s dizzy,” Jazz drawled, waving a hand in Soundwave and Laserbeak’s general direction.  “Be a doll and make her undizzy, would you Aid?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the Protectobot replied perkily, and gestured for Soundwave to set her down on a medberth.  Right away he started a series of scans, optics flickering as he digested the data. “Describe the symptoms, please, and when they started.  And put that out, now.” 

That last part was directed at Jazz, who had just ignited a cygarette and was drawing a stream of evaporated coolant into his vents.  The light rolled behind his visor, but he did snuff it out. Obediently Soundwave started describing her symptoms but he never stopped monitoring Jazz, now lolling about on another medberth, bored, irritated, and getting more so of both by the second.   _ Threat threat threat _ needled at Soundwave’s protocols.  This was a bad idea - he shouldn’t have bothered Jazz, who might take out his annoyances on Laserbeak or another cassette later.  But Laserbeak was in pain and he had an obligation to Laserbeak so how could he not - 

“Soundwave?”  

Soundwave had to drag his attention back to the lesser threat, First Aid, who was gazing up at him curiously.  “You just… stopped, in the middle of a sentence.” 

“How can you tell?” Jazz muttered, and First Aid ignored him.  Desperately Soundwave rifled through his rapidly-disintegrating subroutines, and reclaimed the conversation. 

“Laserbeak recharging through full defragmentation.  However, recharge excessive for her model type.”

“Is she taking all her energon?”  

“Laserbeak consumes all energon.  When provided,” he added most carefully, still tracking Jazz.  He didn’t seem to notice the comment, now gazing at the ceiling and tapping a pede to some music on his speakers.  

“Does it always stay down?”

“Negative; upheaval occurred earlier tonight and prompted visit to medbay.”

“And is this recurring nausea recent?”

“Relatively.”

“Since…”  First Aid was gesturing for more details, as Hook would have done, though Hook would have never shown this much patience.  “Her last surgery?”

“Aff-affirmative.”

“Or the end of the war?  Your transfer?”

Frantically Soundwave’s optics shifted back and forth between First Aid and Jazz.  The medic just kept pressing for answers, he wanted the truth, and Soundwave was programmed to tell it.  But Jazz was right there and still listening, and it had been so long since Soundwave ever had to worry about telling the truth.  He never had to be afraid, once he was working directly for Megatron, never had to compromise, not like now with the world turned upside down and oh Laserbeak was having another dizzy spell…

The world literally tilted this time and he heard First Aid shout his name.  In the next moment he felt the Protectobot digging into his side, and realized he was all that was keeping Soundwave from crumpling into the floor.  There was more shouting on his part for Jazz to come help, Laserbeak squawking in distress, so much unnecessary noise! The world tilted again when both Autobots tipped him back onto the nearest medberth.  His optical input was whirling around him and he wanted to shutter his visor, try a reboot, but the medic was leaning over him and shining a light into each receptor, and he was too afraid of punishment to risk it.  

“Soundwave, can you hear me?”

“Affirmative.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Negative.  But Laserbeak -”

“But there is something wrong with you.  I’m going to scan you now, please describe your symptoms.”  

On his left side the Autobot started his scans, but over on the right Jazz was staring down at him, and under the icy blue knife of his visor Soundwave’s vocalizer locked up completely.  

“Well, Soundwave?  The doc asked you a question.  Let’s have an answer already.” Impatiently his fingertips drummed against Soundwave’s plating.  “Now?”

“He doesn’t have to say it,” First Aid spoke up instead, rather curtly.  His scans complete, the medic stepped back, aghast stare settling on Jazz.  “He’s suffering from malnutrition.”

“Say what?”

“Jazz, how could you?  You know what Prime’s orders were!  How important this was to him! Are you making all of them starve?”

“No, I didn’t, I swear!  I fill my dispenser to the brim and they all have access.”  Jazz took a half step back, expression sliding back out of pure surprise and into something more defensive.  That sharp visor tilted his way again, nodding his head sharply in First Aid’s direction. “Tell him, Soundwave.”  

Pinned on the berth between two Autobots, exhausted, nauseous, and still fighting back the panic radiating off Laserbeak, Soundwave did not have the energy to dance around deference anymore.  Helplessly, he surrendered to his most basic protocols.

“Jazz does allow free access to energon dispenser in home.  When filled, it is filled to capacity.” Exasperated, Jazz made a gesture as if to indicate ‘There, see?’ to the accusing medic.  “However, Jazz’s frequency in refilling, intermittent. Dispenser, sometimes empty for multiple cycles between refillings.”

“Wait, what?”

“Jazz!”

“I didn’t- I mean, it wasn’t on purpose!  I filled it up as often as -”

“As often as you ever needed when you were  _ living alone?” _ First Aid finished for him, optical light washing out to ever-more paling shades of blue.  

“No, I knew it needed more refillings than that,” huffed Jazz.  “But I’m drinking just as often down in the club and- and, some days just go by in a blur, and I didn’t know that it was empty!”  Now his own accusing gaze turned on Soundwave. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Soundwave, prisoner,” Soundwave answered simply, rather confused that he had to explain such a thing.  “In no position to make demands.” 

“Jazz, you had six extra mouths in your home,” First Aid snapped.  “It was your responsibility to make sure they were getting adequately fed.  I’m telling Ratchet.” 

“Whoa, let’s not be hasty now!”  Alarm flashed across Jazz’s face and he reached across Soundwave to snag First Aid’s wrist, just as he was moving to tap his exterior comlink.  “Aid, you’re chief medic on this case now. And it’s up to you to help repair this little mess. Nobody else here who can. So you tell me, what’s first to fix it?”  

It was flattery, pure and simple; Soundwave had seen Starscream employ it often enough in the war to suit his needs.  Jazz was no amateur at wielding it either, and Soundwave noted the bright flush of blue in First Aid’s visor, the telltale straightening of posture in response.  

“Well, for starters, I need to tend to my patients.  Both of them. And you need a drip line,” he added, now to Soundwave, “to get some nutrients straight into your frame.”  He set about rigging up a fuel drip.   
“Laserbeak -” 

“I’ll attend to her again in just a moment.  Were you telling the truth about her fuel consumption?”

“Affirmative.”  Soundwave winced a little when First Aid inserted the drip deftly into a subplating fuel line.  “Soundwave, abstaining from fuel to conserve adequate supply for cassettes.”

First Aid paused here to throw another dirty look at Jazz, who raised his hands in surrender.  Surely he was planning some way to punish Soundwave for this embarrassment. Internally he cringed in fear for his cassettes.

“You must know that this sustained deprivation has probably led to a compromised immune system,” First Aid was telling him.  “I’ll need to run a full diagnostic for any viruses, and check your firewalls too.”

“Laserbeak in great distress,” Soundwave pleaded.  “Requires holding.”

“I’m sorry but it is going to have to wait.  Better yet…” First Aid looked up from his datapad, with a speculative look aimed at Jazz.  “Since you’re not doing anything, why don’t you hold her?”

“What?” Jazz asked, startled.

_ ‘What?’ _ Soundwave nearly said himself, more than just startled.  

First Aid scooped Laserbeak neatly off the berth and approached Jazz, who hastily backed away.  “What am I, your nurse?”

“You are the mech that does not want me to call Ratchet.  I suggest you pitch in, if you want me to stay chief medic for now.  Really, Jazz, I think you’ve handled scarier things than a sick cassette.  She’s not going to bite.” 

Brooking no resistance, First Aid pushed her into Jazz’s arms, and Soundwave nearly surged off the berth to snatch her right back out of them.  Images of being brought to the floor by his stasis cuffs was all that kept him where he was, absolutely rigid with terror. 

For his part, Jazz looked just as rigid, awkwardly unsure how to hold the wheezing and crying Laserbeak.  “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Nothing, just hold her,” First Aid answered distractedly, still absorbed with Soundwave’s readouts.  “Rock her, maybe, it may help with the nausea.”

Jazz still looked like a fish caught in the floodlights of the  _ Nemesis, _ but the word ‘rock’ seemed to get through to him.  Uncertainly he bounced Laserbeak twice, then tried to rock his arms from side to side.  He hummed something in his vocalizer, then switched over to soft music playing from his speakers.  Soundwave was so busy being terrified for Laserbeak’s safety that her bright burst of curiosity caught him completely by surprise.  He had to look twice to believe it, but sure enough, Laserbeak was calming down. Her cries tapered off, and she settled into the cradle of Jazz’s arms, distracted by the novelty of the music enough to forget her own discomfort for a little while.

Jazz noticed too, and in spite of himself he grinned.  “Well how d’ya like that: Brubeck settled her down. Gal’s got taste, I’ll give her that.”  

Soundwave did not know what to say that, so he kept to his usual practice of saying nothing at all.  He simply lay there and watched Prime’s assassin continue to rock his smallest cassette in his arms, surely the most baffling sight he’d ever personally beheld.  He also briefly caught First Aid looking at them as well, a contemplative look in those young optics, and maybe a smile as well. 

 

Ten breems later, Jazz softly informed them that Laserbeak had fallen into recharge.  “Good,” First Aid announced with relish, and turned a pleased smile Soundwave’s way. “How did she feel?”

“In less distress than earlier.  Nausea, much reduced.” 

“I am happy to hear it.  Now it’s just a question of how to keep it that way.  I’ll begin by diagnosing a steady diet of energon for yourself; I may not know very much about carriers and their cassettes yet, but I’m sure that going days without fuel and shortchanging yourself on energy and immunity was doing her no favors.”  

Soundwave allowed a small sigh to escape his vents.  “Your hypothesis, correct.” 

“You do realize that I have to update his file now,” First Aid added, quite clearly addressing Jazz.  “It would be unethical and against all my programming to not record this in his medical history.”

“But… you don’t have to draw Ratchet’s attention to it,” Jazz elaborated cautiously, wary grin to match.  “Do you?”

“No, I suppose I don’t.  In exchange for something else.”  

“Ooh, a bargain.  You’re so cute! Name your price.”

“You have to take Soundwave and his cassettes out on a walk through the neighborhood.  A nice, long walk. Tomorrow, and every cycle after that for as long as they want it.” 

Jazz stared at First Aid.  “D’ya want a fresh copy of the Vector Sigma key while I’m out?”  

“Don’t brush me off, Jazz, I’m quite serious.  I’ve been scanning the files Ratchet keeps for the cassettibots, and there’s a lot of talk about the ability to explore, and how important it is to their model type.  Also how frustrated and unhappy they get when they can’t. Is it the same for yours?” He looked expectantly at Soundwave, who nodded once. “My scans say there is nothing medically wrong with Laserbeak.  So I’m thinking that a malnourished carrier, unhappy siblings, and the inability to roam about are hindering her recovery from what was a pretty invasive surgery, after all. The cure isn’t more medical procedures, but letting her and the rest of the cassettes do what they were built to do in the first place.”  

“I am not a nanny, Aid, _ ”  _ Jazz said sharply.  “I’m not singing ‘Do-Re-Mi’ or ‘Spoonful of Sugar’ while I skip down the street holding hands with a pack of Cons and do you know why?  Because I have a business to run, and a life to have. Bad enough they all have to sleep in my own home. Blue One-Note here has already done plenty to cramp my style just by existing.  A walk? Forget it.” 

“Jazz!  Before the conversation goes one more minute I will remind you that you accepted custody of Soundwave and his cassettes from Optimus Prime, you promised him that you would see to their care.  And you’re failing him!”

“I will feed them -”

“It’s not about the fuel, Jazz.  We could have locked them all up in a prison and I’d give the rations myself, if it was just fuel.  Optimus wants the Decepticons to become a part of this world that we’re building, he wants them to integrate.  If they join in and help build, work with us, then they stop being the enemy and it’s the only way we’ll ever have peace.  When you keep Soundwave locked up in that penthouse apartment of yours, you’re doing exactly the one thing Optimus  _ didn’t  _ want.  Can’t you see that?”

Jazz looked fairly astonished at the young Protectobot’s unexpected speech, and for a moment - however briefly - seemed to have forgotten his endless arsenal of quips.  

“How long you been saving that up, kiddo?”

“I’m a pacifist, Jazz.  I was sparked with it. Now are you going to buy into the sentiment, or do I have to resort to blackmail?”  

“Ugh, fine, a walk.  We’ll do a spin around the block, me and my buddy Soundwave… and a five-way leash.  Won’t this be fun?” He flashed a very Starscream-like smile in Soundwave’s direction, who had spent the last breem steadily wishing he could disappear through the medbay floor.  

Still afraid for his cassetticons’ safety, he answered stiffly, “Allowance of some mobility freedoms to cassettes, greatly appreciated.  Gratitude offered.”

“Don’t mention it.  Seriously, I know how you hate to use up all your ten words for any given day.”  

“You’re free to go anyway, Soundwave,” First Aid added, unintentionally stabbing him in the spark with his choice of words.  How Soundwave wished that were truly the case. “You’ve absorbed as much fuel as you can safely handle for now. This datapad contains a schedule of fuel portions and timing to which you should keep for the next three cycles… so long as Jazz remembers to make the fuel available, I expect your malnutrition to resolve itself without trouble.”

Soundwave slid cautiously to standing, intently focusing on his gyro stabilizers until he was confident that he really could stand alone and walk freely.  Should he also state gratitude for the young medic? Clearly he was alpha here, but medics always were in their own medbays, and Jazz outranked him. He wouldn’t like it if Soundwave verbally thanked him, especially if it was perceived to be for the new orders that Jazz clearly despised.  He settled on bowing his head, then turned for Jazz with his arms outstretched, ready to take Laserbeak. 

The motion seemed to take Jazz a little by surprise, and he looked down at the cassette like he’d forgotten she was there.  “S’alright, my mech. Wouldn’t want to wake her. I’ll carry her home. You just concentrate on staying upright for now.” 

“Orders understood,” Soundwave said quickly, still anxious to appease.  

“That wasn’t -” A spark of exasperation crossed his visor, but he shook it away and gave up on the rest of the sentence.  He looked back at First Aid, cleaning the used berths, sighed, and tried something else quite unexpected. 

_ “Je suis désolé,” _ he said, using the human language French.  Most Decepticons had never bothered to learn it, and going by the quizzical look in First Aid’s visor, probably most Autobots had not either.   _ “I’m sorry.  You were starving, and you thought I was doing it on purpose, but it was just an accident and I’m sorry.  That’s not how this was supposed to work, none of us are out to hurt you.  _  I  _ am not here to hurt you.  And I wasn’t orderin’ you anything about LB here, just offerin’.”  _  He looked down at the sleeping cassette and then back to Soundwave, wry grin tugging at his mouth.  _  “Rock a little kiddo to sleep and apologize to a Decepticon - that’s two things tonight I’ve never done before.  Let’s go home before anything else too radical happens to me, like turning honest or falling in love. _  Good night, Aid!” he tacked on quite cheerfully, sauntering out of the bay without bothering to look back at First Aid’s blank expression.   And Soundwave, for the first time since crossing over into Jazz’s control, grasped the truth that Jazz did not intend harm against his cassettes.  He could have wept with relief. Instead he did as Jazz suggested, and turned to follow him home.

That was the first night he thought of it as such.  And it was the last night any of his family, Soundwave included, went hungry.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own these characters
> 
> As an inverse to the beginning of TGWP, I liked it, but Jazz definitely came off a little jerkier than I would have preferred. So I'll probably follow with a second part at a later date, part of it's already written, but it's been too long since I posted so I wanted to get this up at least.


End file.
